


One Quarter Doesn't Make a Dollar

by AmateurScribes



Series: Whumptober 2019 [24]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied Sexual Content, Prompt Fic, Secret Injury, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Vomiting, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 19:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: He's always thought that he had pretty good eyes, and Tucker would have to be an idiot to not see that something was clearly wrong with Grif.





	One Quarter Doesn't Make a Dollar

**Author's Note:**

> Had to think about what could be a fun secret injury here when I noticed a particular trope was missing and thought it'd be fun to roll with it!
> 
> For the duration of this event, all mistakes are my own.

Tucker considered himself to be pretty damn observant, after all these years, it'd make sense that he'd at least have some skills in it.

That doesn't mean that he's necessarily smart- he can see something, doesn't mean he knows what it may be or why.

So when he notices Grif limping the first few days after they had finally settled down on Chorus, the first thing that his mind jumps to is that he and Simmons had  _ finally _ gotten over themselves and  _ finally fucked _ since the closet incident.

Which is why he gets a rather lecherous grin on his face and saunters right over to the orange armored soldier to throw his arm around him and ask, "So, finally got over yourself and got dick-downed by Simmons, huh?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Grif asked him, an annoyed but confused tone to his voice that had Tucker chuckling.

"Oh, you know," he rolled his hand, still grinning. "You  _ just _ came out of Simmons' apartment, and it's clear that you're limping, it doesn't take a genius with more than a couple of brain-cells to figure out what you two did."

"Apparently it does, or at least you admitted that you're an idiot because we didn't fuck," he shakes Tucker's arm off of him, continuing to walk forward- still limping, but now Tucker could tell he was trying to hide it.

"Sure, you didn't," he rolled his eyes. "I'm as much of a fan of kissing and not telling as the next guy, but as your  _ friend, _ you're legally required to tell me when the two of you fuck."

"Since when was that a thing- better yet, since when could we be classified as friends," Grif snapped, and his reactions were just fueling Tucker's idea of what they'd been doing. 

Knowing that he had a leg up on the other man, he was pleased with himself as he reminded him, "Since you apologized to us  _ all _ back in Desert Gulch. Or did you not mean it?"

Grif's expression darkened, and he pushed the other man away with a hissed, "Fuck off, asshole."

Tucker didn't follow him, satisfied with his teasing for the moment, and as he watched Grif leave he decided to get one last jab in when he called out, "By the way, I never took you for a bottom, but you know what, it makes sense-  _ because of how lazy you are!" _

The Red didn't respond, but given the way that it looked like a thunderstorm had emerged just from how pissed off he was, Tucker had a feeling that he was embarrassed.

Eyeing the door to Simmons' apartment, he debates whether he should go in and harass him too, but he figured it wouldn't be nearly half as fun as catching the evidence of their lovemaking after the fact in public.

But the next time he saw the redhead he would give him absolute hell for it too. He didn't discriminate- he was a lover of love after all. Especially when it came to a multi-year long pining that he was  _ still _ waiting on an official announcement of their getting together.

Dusting his hands off, pleased with himself, he figured that that'd be the end of that- Grif would actually stay for  _ true _ pillow talk the next time and thus he wouldn't be seen limping around anymore.

Except, that's not quite true.

Because the limp seems to persist  _ long _ after that one day- or at the very least, he's just now noticing it. And as much as Tucker liked to think it was that they were getting laid every day, there were days where he  _ knew _ that Simmons wasn't home all day, but Grif would still be limping around.

And that's when he became concerned- not heavily, for all he knew, it was an old wound that was starting to act up, it was getting colder on Chorus after all.

It was just little things that caught his eye in ever-growing frequency- the dragging of his foot as he walked and the scratching sound that resulted from the armored boot against the pavement, the stiffness to his gait towards the beginning and end of the day, just so many things that Tucker could observe clear as the day is long.

But his concern grew to a tipping point when he literally watched the other man struggle to push himself out of a chair, a look of pain twisting his features as his fingers held so tightly onto the armrests that they practically went white. Judging by the stumble upon the first step that he made, Tucker wouldn't have been surprised if his leg had locked up.

It seemed as though Tucker was the only one to notice- none of the conversations faltering- but for that brief moment, he truly thought that Grif would have collapsed right then and there in front of everyone.

Grif was seriously hurt, but he wasn't saying  _ anything _ and this had been going on for weeks, and Tucker felt absolutely shitty at having made a joke of it at first- Grif's temperament making sense in the context that he was probably genuinely in  _ pain. _

He had to make things right, and that meant making sure that his friend wasn't going to keel over and die from a secret injury.

So while everyone else continued to chat, he followed after Grif.

Even though he tried to quietly pad after the man, Grif heard him approaching and turned slightly to look at him, a cross expression on his face as he asked, "What the hell are doing, Tucker?"

"I think the better question is, where the hell are you going," Tucker frowned. "Because it better be the hospital."

"I don't need to go to the hospital," Grif immediately countered. "I'm going to my apartment."

"Notice how you didn't question  _ why _ I would say that you needed to get medical help," he pointed out. "It's almost as if you  _ know _ you're in pain, and since  _ I _ know that too, let's cut the bullshit and just skip to the part where you get help."

"I'm  _ fine," _ Grif grit out. "I'm just tired, ok? You know me and how much I love my naps."

"Maybe I'd believe that if I hadn't spent the last few weeks watching you limp everywhere," Tucker rolled his eyes, getting closer to the other man, watching as his face blanched the longer they stood in the hallway. "Grif, I won't lie to you, you look like shit."

"Thanks, you really know how to boost my ego," Grif responded monotonously, sweat starting to build on his forehead, his eyebrows creasing as his face pinched. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go to my apartment."

He walked forward, but Tucker not wanting this conversation to be dismissed so easily, reached out to grab Grif's arm, pulling the man slightly back, watching in shock at the way the other man grimaced with his hand slapping up to cover his mouth as his leg twisted backward.

Grif rushed out of his hold, heading towards his apartment door that he had left unlocked thankfully, and raced towards the trashcan where he promptly spilled his guts into it, making a horrible retching sound as his hair fell towards his face.

"Shit," Tucker muttered, following in after the man, having the right amount of sense to close the door so that nobody could peer in and see the mess that the other man was making. "Grif, are you-"

"I'm-  _ fine," _ he accentuated this statement by spit leftover vomit into the trash can, a line of drool dripping from his lips afterward. "Oh- God-  _ nope-" _

"This is what I'm talking about, we need to get you to a hospital!" Tucker complained, resting his hands against Grif's shoulders to ease him up from where he had crashed to the floor. The other man wrapped his arms tightly around the bin, bringing it up with him.

Being mindful of his leg, Tucker directed the other man to the couch that he had in the room, settling him down on it, nose crinkling at the putrid smell coming from the can.

"Be honest with me, no bullshit, what's wrong?" he asked, settling down across from the Red.

Grif was silent for a moment, staring down at the bin morosely, before he looked up at Tucker and said, "It's a  _ long _ and... complicated story."

"Dude, we have all the time in the world now," he said.

"It's easier if I show you," Grif said, settling the trash can down next to the couch, hands reaching for the armor on his leg- the one that he was constantly dragging and limping on.

One by one the pieces of metal came off and having expected to see some sort of bloody under armor from a wound not properly taken care of, Tucker is confused by the sight of driftwood revealed more and more until he could connect that it was in the shape of a wooden leg with leather straps to hold it in place.

"What the fuck," he breathed out, eyes wide. "Grif! When did this happen?!"

Grimacing, Grif looked down at it and explained, "When I had... quit, I had a lot of free time on Iris."

"So you cut off your leg?!" his mind jumped to.

"No! Idiot," Grif hissed, clenching his fists. "I just spent most of the time wandering around, ok? And eventually, fuck, I don't know- one of those little bastard dinosaur things came out of nowhere and bit me! It sunk it's sharp as shit teeth into my leg, and if Freckles hadn't been there to kill it then I wouldn't be here now- the thing was vicious as fuck!"

Gesticulating wildly, Grif got more worked up, "And then I thought that that would be it- I've been bitten by animals before, I know how to treat a bite, it hurts like a bitch but it's no big deal! But then, fuck, I don't even know the medical term for it, but the muscles just started  _ rotting _ and I panicked, ok?!"

"Rotted?" Tucker's stomach churned at the thought of live flesh rotting and falling off, reminding him of all the stories about leprosy that used to freak him out as a kid and still did now.

"I thought that my blood had gotten infected at first from some sort of bacteria," Grif explained. "But I had no other choice, and I'm not a doctor, not by far. But you already know about how I made the volleyballs, and if I could learn Spanish for Lopez, then I figured- fuck, he keeps all his blueprints over the years, right? How hard could it be to follow them?"

"So you made your own prosthesis?" if he wasn't so disturbed at the nature of it, Tucker would applaud the other man for it.

"I tried, but I don't know shit about surgery, and it's not like Simmons' prosthesis- I know how to take care of those- and-" he exhaled shakily. "I fucked up, I fucked up so much."

"How, it looks fine to me?" Tucker noted.

"That's because you haven't seen the mess of welts and blisters that's on the stump," and Grif looked sick again. "My nerves feel like they're on fucking fire- it hurts so much to walk, and it's just a disgusting sight of red sores to look at, even thinking about it makes it flare up."

"That's it, I can't hear any more of this, I'm taking you to Grey," Tucker shook his head in disbelief. "Why didn't you tell us- any of us?" 

"Tucker, don't-" Grif reached out before aborting the movement and setting his hand back down. "I don't want anybody to find out about this."

"Why not?!" Tucker couldn't understand his reluctance to seek medical help.

"Out of the four limbs that everyone starts with, I have only  _ one _ left," Grif looked at him, conflict in his eyes. "That little bastard just had to bite into  _ my _ leg and not Simmons' and, fuck-"

Grif closed his eyes, hands digging into his knees, mindful of the prosthetic leg.

"I just want people to think that there's some of  _ me _ in here, ok?" Grif whispered. "I don't care if this leg get's fucked up, so long as nobody but me knows then I'm fine with that. Rumors spread like wild-fire and the plague in a hospital."

"Grif, just look at Simmons, nobody thinks less of him because he's a cyborg, you should know this better than anyone," he stated quietly.

"But I'm not Simmons, ok? When people look at him, they admire his cybernetics," Grif eyes darkened. "When people look at me they see half of him, and now they'll see even less of me."

**Author's Note:**

> Midway through finishing this, the thought that it Grif also lost his right arm, and if he never got Simmons' limbs instead he was the one made into a cyborg, then here he'd be like Darth Vader in that he's missing all his limbs. I guess I had Star Wars on the brain from a conversation I was having earlier, haha. Also, it's not mentioned because neither of them knew what it was exactly that caused the rotting, but his leg went necrotic due to the bite. 
> 
> If you'd like to contact me you can find me at either of my Tumblr's: @agent-murica (main) and @amateurscribes (writing)!


End file.
